


Fire and Ice

by salanaland



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 23:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12376644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland
Summary: Shay dreams.





	Fire and Ice

 

Shay stirs fitfully in his cold, rented bed. Ridiculous that he has to stay in an inn in his own hometown...

 

_..."I will, of course, expect the utmost discretion."_

_"Of course," Shay confirms. "You've leave to carry on Templar business any time in the privacy of the captain's cabin." He leads Haytham into the shadowed cabin and sets about lighting the lanterns._

_"And **privacy**  is exactly what we need," and Shay shivers as Haytham's breath thaws his ear._

_"Sir?" he asks, with the most fragile spark beginning to burn somewhere south of his belly. "Surely you're not saying--" and the shock of it stops his words entirely as the gentle flicker of Haytham's tongue scorches his skin. **This is real** , he can't quite make himself believe, the only proof of it the chill of saliva on his neck, exposed to the frosty air, melting him to his core--_

_"I am not **saying**  anything, and I expect you not to either." Haytham guides Shay to his own bed, locking the door behind them..._

 

Shay turns over, restless with the same dream that's simmered within him for decades, now, a thousand scenarios, each more improbable than the last. Need boils into roiling shame that twists into delight unexpected.

 

_...Shay yanks the woolen blankets more firmly into place as Haytham intrudes on his repose. "Uh, sir, I was just..." he trails off, realizing that it's brutally obvious through the bedclothes what exactly Shay was up to. Never before has he been so embarrassed by the generous gift nature has bestowed on him._

_Haytham seats himself at the desk with a tight little smirk. "I had thought I heard my name."_

_Shay's cheeks burn and he averts his eyes, tongue-tied. He mumbles something noncommittal and fervently wishes for stray cannon fire to put him out of his misery. "I'll...I'll stop, sir."_

_"Nonsense," Haytham says briskly, settling his hat on the desk and eying Shay with disturbing intensity as he leans forward in the chair and laces his fingers together. "Do continue." When Shay remains frozen in place, Haytham prompts, "Touch yourself and think of me. Consider it an order from your superior."_

_Shay cannot help but comply..._

 

The church bells toll, the time of the service approaches, and Shay, half-hearing them, burrows deeper in the musty pillows and moth-eaten blanket, seeking a comfort he'd never been offered, and never would be...

 

_...it's not bitterly cold yet, though there's a definite snap in the air, but that's not why Shay's got his pillow pressed over his head. It seems like every church within a dozen miles of Fort Arsenal is clanging its bells with unbelievable fervor._

_Once upon a time, he would have tugged his aunt's hand impatiently to hurry her to Mass, to hear tell of the saints, the martyrs, crushed by stones or burned or drowned for their faith. But that time belonged to an innocent, one who had perished in Lisbon's tectonic rage as sure as tens of thousands of others._

_The door creaks open amidst the clamor. "You've let the fire die out," Haytham chides him, gently. "You'll catch your death."_

_Shay can't even voice a coherent objection to that, he just shivers in bed, wishing the bells and the holy day and his **life** would just come to an end._

_The straw of the mattress rustles and the bed creaks under Haytham's added weight. And then, the warmth of an awkward arm hesitant on his shoulders. "I know this day is hard on you," Haytham whispers, drawing him close._

_When Shay's cried himself out, when the blaze of self-loathing has cooled to embers, when the agony and the guilt have eased from his chest, he stares into Haytham's eyes. They're entirely too cozy, here on the bed together, and it's entirely too easy for Shay to purse his trembling lips and join them to Haytham's in a feverish prayer for some kind of salvation..._

 

...the bells ring again insistently, and Shay rolls over with a groan that is half sob. A thousand ways _improbable_  are now rendered _impossible_ , and Shay has killed and killed and he has nearly died, he has rebuilt his life from literal rubble and ash, but he does not think he is strong enough to wake up and go to the churchyard where Haytham waits, stiff and still, colder than the icy tears on Shay's face or the congealed mess of his nightshirt.

 

This torch he's carried, this fire in his loins has for years fueled his only good dream. Nothing remains now but the cinders of his hope, and the torment of stone and eulogy, opportunity missed for the very last time, will haunt his slumber for the rest of his life.


End file.
